Northern Latitudes
by Amanda Straw
Summary: Inexplicable Northern Exposure/Smallville crossover. Even *I* don't know what I was thinking. Rated hard R.


"What have we got, O'Connell?"  
  
"Plane crash, approximately 35 miles south of here, pilot reports one passenger with critical injuries, one with minors, and the pilot sounded like he was fading fast," Maggie rattled off as she prepared her small plane for takeoff.  
  
Joel sighed. Even with the plane they probably wouldn't get back to Cicely in time to save the two criticals. He strapped himself into O'Connell's rickety Cessna and for the millionth time wondered why he had signed on for this in the first place.  
  
The crash scene was a mass of tangled metal and splintered wood. The falling plane had managed to carve quite a path through the surrounding woodlands. Maggie immediately began fighting her way through the debris to the remains of the cockpit to find the wounded pilot, while Joel tended to the critically injured man who had obviously been ejected from the cabin upon impact, for he was nearly ten yards away from the twisted body of the plane.  
  
Then how did the pilot know about this man's injuries, he wondered as he assessed the man's condition. The pulse was weak and thready, resps shallow, and exposure had speeded up the cyanosis. Femoral pulses were absent, suggesting possible spinal injury, or at the very least severe damage to both lower extremities. If he survived the trip to Anchorage he would most likely lose the legs. Right brachial pulse was present, but the left arm had sustained a vicious compound fracture, the jagged edges of the radius and ulna poking out from just beneath the elbow. Blood loss was harder to gauge when the victim was packed in snow, but Joel estimated at least two liters. He pulled out his stethoscope and began to assess internal injuries. No pneumothoracies, and no sign of abdominal trauma, but Joel couldn't rule anything out with only external examination.  
  
"O'Connell, I'm gonna need your help with a backboard here!" he shouted. "O'Connell?"  
  
She staggered out of the wreckage. "Pilot's dead," she announced. "I found the other passenger--he's unconscious and probably hypothermic, but other than that, he's fine. You go get him while I run back to the plane for the backboard."  
  
Joel crawled into the mangled cabin through one of the windows. He reached under the slim bald man's shoulders and maneuvered him out through the same window. He rechecked everything--pulse, resps, skin, extremities--and found nothing to dispute O'Connell's original assessment. He dragged the man over to his injured colleague while he waited for O'Connell to return from the plane.  
  
It seemed like an eternity before she finally came back, dragging the awkward plastic backboard through the snow behind her. She set it down next to the injured man. "Help me roll him," Joel commanded, positioning his hands on the man's shoulders. Maggie took his legs, and rolled him over as Joel quickly shoved the backboard underneath him. She helped Joel fasten the restraints.  
  
"All right, let's get him into the plane." Joel and Maggie delicately lifted the backboard and gingerly carried it over to the plane, where they loaded their injured patient into the backseat. They turned to see the bald man--God, he was young, couldn't have been more than twenty or so-- standing unsteadily behind them. Joel rushed to steady him. "Whoa, easy there!" He helped the young man into the plane. "What's your name?"  
  
The man looked at Joel as though he were speaking a foreign language. He looked around at the plane, at the man beside him, at Maggie, then finally back at Joel. "I don't know."  
  
The plane ride back from Anchorage to Cicely was a fairly long one, allowing Joel plenty of time to interrogate his mystery man. "You don't remember anything at all. Your name, where you live, where you were going?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Do you know how old you are?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Any family, friends?"  
  
"Don't know."  
  
Joel sighed. The first sign of another civilized person he'd had in years, and the guy didn't know who or what he was. "Well, you're sure not from around here--otherwise you'd be dressed for the weather."  
  
The man looked down at his business suit, rumpled from the crash but otherwise no worse for wear. It was impeccably tailored and fit him like a second skin, but the doctor was right--it was completely out of place in the wilds of Alaska.  
  
"What do you do for a living?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"No idea at all, huh? Well, just by looking at you, I'd say that you're some high-level corporate executive, an obscenely successful lawyer, or possibly a doctor. Any of those ring a bell?"  
  
"No."  
  
Joel studied the man's demeanor. He spoke crisp, perfectly enunciated words in evenly moderated tones, and his face was carefully guarded. Not a single emotion flickered across the steel-gray eyes, not confusion or surprise or concern. Nothing. He looked perfectly comfortable sitting in an Armani suit on a rickety plane in the middle of Alaska.  
  
They finally arrived back in Cicely. Joel insisted on taking the man back to his office for further evaluation.  
  
"Fleischman, what more can you possibly do for him? You think if you shine that little light hard enough into his eyes you can find his memories?"  
  
"This is no time for jokes, O'Connell. We're talking about a serious medical condition."  
  
"And I'm not a doctor! Why do you need me?"  
  
"People with amnesia need to be surrounded by as many familiar things as possible. Right now, you and I are the only ones that qualify."  
  
"You know, I'm right here," said the man quietly.  
  
Maggie shot Joel a look. "You're right," she said. "Isn't he, Fleischman?"  
  
"Yeah," said Joel absently, his mind clearly on something else.  
  
Joel burst into the office, Maggie and the bald man trailing behind. Marilyn looked up at them. "He doesn't belong here," she intoned.  
  
Joel ignored her, but the man stopped and looked intently at Marilyn. "Where do I belong?" he asked softly.  
  
"Home," she replied cryptically, and went back to her knitting. The man stared at her until Maggie gently pulled him away and into Joel's office.  
  
"Look at this!" Joel exclaimed. He was going over every inch of the man's bald head. "I've never seen anything like it. There's no trace of hair follicles anywhere! Come here," he ordered Maggie, handing her a magnifying glass. "Look at these pores, then look at the pores on your arm." He showed her. "The structure is completely different. This is incredible--some sort of genetic mutation, obviously. It runs completely contrary to evolutionary purposes, of course--hair is one of the most basic anatomical survival mechanisms, left over from the earliest incarnations of the humanoid form. We may be looking at a first generation genetic mutation. Do you know how incredibly rare that would be?"  
  
The man glared at Joel. Maggie snickered. "His bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired. Tact, apparently, isn't something they teach at Columbia."  
  
"Shut up, O'Connell."  
  
"Leave him alone, Fleischman! He's a person, not a lab rat." She reached for his hand. "Come on, I think I know where I can find you some clothes."  
  
"Hello, Maggie," said Ruth-Anne warmly. "Who's this?"  
  
"He doesn't know. We picked him up from a crash site 30 miles south of here. Can't remember his name, date of birth, hometown, or anything else."  
  
"That's terrible," replied Ruth-Anne. "What did Joel say?"  
  
"Nothing useful, as usual," Maggie retorted, and the man cracked a small smile. "Is Ed around? I was hoping he'd be able to lend this man some clothes more appropriate for Cicely."  
  
"I think he's over at the radio station with Chris," Ruth-Anne answered. "Maurice wants the place cleaned up for another one of those 'friends' of his who's coming in Friday."  
  
"Thanks, Ruth-Anne," said Maggie. She motioned for the man to follow her out of the store.  
  
"Apparently the big news in Cicely today is the appearance of a 'mystery man,' pulled from the wreckage of a plane crash by our own intrepid Dr. Fleischman and Maggie O'Connell. No name, no age, no origins--a tabula rasa, if you will. Which begs the question: what are we without an identity? A sense of self?  
  
The existentialists told us that we as humans are the only animals who define themselves through the simple act of living. We define ourselves through living; we find meaning in that life by creating a sense of ourselves. Sartre told us that man must create his own essence--every action and reaction of his, every struggle and triumph, defines him. And yet, the definition is constantly changing; for every second that said man remains alive, he is doing something to define himself. Even while sleeping, his dreams add to his essence, gently reshaping the man we knew so that by the time he wakes up, he is subtly different than the man we knew the night before. 'We cannot say what this man is before he dies,' Sartre informs us, for every second of this man's life has had some impact on his sense of self, some impact that makes him different from the man or woman next to him. Something he says, something he writes, something he dreams, somewhere he goes--all these make him the man he is, and prevent him from becoming the man next to him.  
  
So what does this mean to one who has lost the sense of himself? Is he no longer human, no longer living? What of his essence? Does it still exist? Does the man still exist? From a biological standpoint, he does--his heart beats, his lungs expand and contract, his blood carries oxygen to his organs--but what about the spiritual standpoint? Is he still a man?  
  
And what of his friends, his family, the people that know this man? Do their memories of this man's essence, his self, constitute a part of it? Can his essence be 'rebuilt,' so to speak, like some metaphysical carburetor? Or is he now a new man, with a new essence, one who can grow to resemble the former man but never quite 'become' him?"  
  
Chris looked up in surprise at the open door. "Well, folks, we may soon have our answer. Apparently our 'mystery man' has deigned to grace the K- Bear studios with a visit, accompanied by the aforementioned Miss O'Connell."  
  
Maggie closed the door behind her and shook her head, making a slashing motion across her throat. "Or perhaps not," Chris continued flawlessly. "In the meantime, here's an oldie but a goodie for you to enjoy." He put on a record and flipped the switch on the old microphone.  
  
"You're not going to exploit this poor man's suffering on the air, Chris. Not in the name of Sartre or any other dead French guy."  
  
"Exploit? That's a bit harsh, don't you think?" Chris replied, looking wounded.  
  
"Sorry," said Maggie. "We just came from Fleischman's office."  
  
"And what did the good doctor have to say?"  
  
"Just that there doesn't seem to be any serious brain damage and that hopefully some familiar people or things will help jog his memory."  
  
"So what brings you here?"  
  
"Ruth-Anne told us that Ed's here helping you. I was hoping he could lend him--" Maggie gestured to the bald man "--some warmer clothes."  
  
Ed emerged from the back storage room, mop in hand. "Hi, Maggie," he said politely. "Who's that?"  
  
"Don't know. We picked him up from a crash site south of here, and he doesn't remember anything."  
  
"Wow," said Ed, his voice deadpan as usual. "That must be pretty tough," he said, addressing the man directly. The man shrugged.  
  
"He obviously wasn't planning on spending any time up here, because he doesn't have any cold-weather clothes. Do you have a jacket or something you could lend him?"  
  
"Sure," said Ed. "I can take him to my place right now." He paused. "If that's okay with you, Chris?"  
  
"It's fine with me.I don't know what Maurice'll think, but don't worry about it. I doubt this Luthor guy's gonna be impressed with this place no matter how good a condition it's in."  
  
"Okay, Chris," said Ed. He smiled at the bald man and took him by the arm, pulling him toward the door.  
  
Ed's "place" was barely the size of Chris's sound booth, and about as sparsely furnished. It had a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf with a lamp on top, and not much else. The bald man looked around, a slight look of distaste on his face. "You live here?"  
  
"Yeah," said Ed, smiling. He reached into the dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. He turned and handed them to the bald man, still smiling.  
  
There was something about Ed, thought the bald man. His dark hair and blue eyes, the flannel shirt and jeans.it was all so familiar. In a very, very good way.  
  
He reached for the proffered clothing and his hand brushed Ed's. He felt that sweet familiarity again, and for a second he wanted to close his eyes and pretend he was home, even though he still didn't know where that was. He looked up into Ed's naïve, trusting eyes and felt a familiar stirring in his groin. He wanted to take the younger man, throw him down on the bed and fuck him until neither of them could move. Feel that delicious warmth thrusting inside him until he came so hard he saw stars behind his eyes and felt every muscle twitch with the aftershocks.  
  
Ed noticed him staring. "What is it?" he asked.  
  
"I was remembering something," the bald man replied, looking away. He looked at Ed's rickety metal bed with its wool blanket and worn cotton sheets. He remembered silk sheets, twisted and sticky with sweat and semen, on a queen-sized bed in a room the size of most of the houses he'd seen in Cicely. He remembered nights that seemed to last for seconds and days at the same time. Nights that made him feel alive, so alive he thought he was dying.  
  
He looked back at Ed's black hair and blue eyes. He was obviously Native American, but only partly so--his skin and eyes were too light to suggest otherwise. He was tall, his features angular, so unlike the features of the other Native Americans he had seen in town.  
  
He was beautiful.  
  
"What do you remember?"  
  
"Sex. Fucking. Silk sheets. Dark hair." He looked deep into Ed's eyes, as though he could see right through them into his soul. His expression was utterly unreadable--no hint of emotion at all.  
  
Ed was starting to feel strange. He knew gay people, like Ron and Erick, but he'd never had one in his bedroom before. Come to think of it, he'd never had a girl in there either.  
  
The bald man spoke. "How old are you?"  
  
"Seventeen," Ed answered. "How old are you?"  
  
The bald man narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. But older than that."  
  
"Oh."  
  
The bald man shifted his gaze away from Ed's eyes. He slowly gazed up and down the length of Ed's body. He fingered the flannel shirt Ed had given him as he did so. Had Ed had any sexual experience, he would have realized that the bald man was checking him out. He would have seen the hunger and desire burning in the man's eyes. He would have felt something--shame, embarrassment, fear--but he didn't know. He didn't realize what was going on.  
  
Until the bald man pushed him down on the bed.  
  
"What are you doing?" asked Ed, his voice full of childish innocence.  
  
"I need this," said the man in a low voice. "I need you." He unbuttoned Ed's shirt, running his hands over Ed's toned chest. "You're the first good thing I've found in this godforsaken town."  
  
Ed was.surprised. Surprised and confused. No one had ever looked at him, ever touched him like this before. What was he supposed to do? It wasn't bad, but it was different. Very, very different. And weird--definitely weird. He wished Chris were here to talk to him, to explain what he was supposed to do when an amnesiac bald man got in his bed with him and started taking off his clothes.  
  
The man's breath was hot on Ed's neck as he pulled the shirt completely off and tossed it on the floor. Ed watched as the man started to remove his own shirt, revealing a smooth, well-muscled, nearly hairless chest. Ed's breath caught in his throat. What was this? And why was it starting to seem.well, kind of exciting?  
  
The bald man took Ed's hand and guided it down to his fly, helping him unzip and remove his pants. Ed could see the man's erection through the opening of his silk boxers. It wasn't long before the man was easing out of his boxers and offering himself completely to Ed.  
  
Ed just lay there, wondering what to do next. He'd never been this far, even with himself. It just wasn't something he did. He tried to think of all of the stories Chris told him about the women he picked up bar-crawling in West Virginia, but none of that really did him any good.  
  
The other man sensed Ed's hesitation. "Nervous?" he asked, the word hanging in the thick, tension-laden air between them.  
  
"I.um.I've never."  
  
"Never been with a man?"  
  
"Never been." What was the polite thing to say? "Uhhh.I've never had sexual relations before."  
  
The man laughed but didn't smile. How could you laugh without smiling? "Sexual relations? How quaint." He finally smiled, but it was a bemused, condescending smile. "I don't have 'sexual relations.' I fuck. Are you going to fuck me?" The man unzipped Ed's jeans.  
  
"Ummm.okay," Ed replied. He took off his own jeans and boxers, somewhat surprised at his own arousal. He hadn't even noticed himself becoming hard; he had been too busy trying to figure out just what the heck was going on.  
  
The man grabbed Ed's hand again and placed it on his cock, their two hands giving it a few hard thrusts. "Like that," the man told him, removing his own hand. Ed kept thrusting until the man came, and the man then twined his fingers with Ed's slick ones, helping Ed lube up his hand. Then the man pulled his knees back, exposing his tight hole to Ed. Ed looked utterly confounded, and the man sighed.  
  
"Start with one finger," he told Ed. "Start gently." Ed eased one finger into the hole, unsure of how far he should go or what he should do next. He moved the finger around a little, until the man told him to add another one. "And harder." Ed moved his fingers a little faster, a little harder. The man was breathing harder now, and Ed smiled to himself, pleased that he was doing it right.  
  
Finally, the man said he was ready. "Fuck me," he said in that seductively low voice, his words gliding through the air like skin on silk. Ed got to his knees and inserted his cock carefully into the opening. The tight heat enveloped his cock, and he was surprised at how good it felt. The bald man arched his back, forcing Ed into him. "Harder," he demanded, his voice practically a growl. Ed thrust forward, his rhythm jerky and uneven at first, but with the other man's guidance he became more confident.  
  
"Oh, God.Clark!"  
  
Ed let out a shuddering breath and pulled out, perplexed by the other man's strange outburst. He sat back on his heels, watching the other man try to regain his composure as recognition flickered across his eyes.  
  
Ed reached for his boxers. "Who's Clark?"  
  
La petite mort, the French call it. The little death. That little death brought Lex Luthor back to life.  
  
In that moment he had remembered everything. Who he was, what he did, where he lived, and why he'd ended up stuck in the middle of nowhere. That was the bad news. The good news was that he'd also remembered Clark, and those blistering-hot nights in the castle fucking so much and so hard that neither of them could even function afterwards.  
  
He slipped into the suit he'd been wearing when he'd gotten on the plane in Kansas the day before. He'd been headed to Seattle for a business meeting, but a severe storm had prevented them from landing. The pilot had diverted the plane northward to avoid it, but an engine problem had brought them down in the Alaskan wilderness.  
  
Something was still nagging at him, something about Alaska that he couldn't quite recall. It was right there, at the very edge of his memory, taunting him, daring him to find it. What could it be about Alaska?  
  
Ed touched Lex's shoulder gently. "Are you all right?"  
  
Lex nodded. "Fine. And call me Lex."  
  
"Okay, Lex," Ed replied.  
  
Lex had to admit that he rather liked the Native Americans' conversation style. Never a wasted word, nor contrived "small talk" to fill silences that most people would find awkward. It was refreshing after all of Lex's years of attending charity balls and business dinners.  
  
Ed, fully dressed, got up from the bed and walked to the door without a word. "Where are you going?" Lex asked as Ed prepared to turn the doorknob.  
  
"Back to K-Bear," he replied. He opened the door, and Lex jumped up to follow him.  
  
"What do you do there?" Lex asked Ed.  
  
"Nothing, really. I work at Ruth-Anne's store, but I also work for Maurice and Maurice is having one of his old friends visit this weekend, so he wants the station to look perfect."  
  
Lex felt that nagging in his brain again. "And who is this friend?"  
  
"Luthor."  
  
Dammit! That's what he had forgotten. His father was coming up here this weekend, and the last thing he wanted Lionel to know was that the town had seen Lex in one of his greatest moments of weakness--his amnesiac state.  
  
Not to mention that he had just fucked what seemed to be the town's only minor. Lex cursed his memory for coming back to him. He had to get out of there, as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. Cover his tracks; let nobody know he had ever been there.  
  
They arrived at the K-Bear studio to find Maurice ranting and pacing the tiny sound booth. "Stevens, I told you to have this place absolutely ship- shape by the close of business today! Why do you think Ruth-Anne agreed to lend you her most valuable employee? This level of irresponsibility is impressive even for you, boy!" He turned when he heard the door open and glared at Ed. "And where have you been, young man?" He looked back at Chris. "No wonder nothing's gotten done around here, if Ed's been off gallivanting around all day and you've been in here spouting off all that philosophy nonsense of yours--" He suddenly stopped dead when he caught sight of Lex standing behind Ed. "Lex? Lex Luthor?" He walked over to the doorway and thoroughly inspected every inch of him before letting out a hearty laugh. "Lex, my boy! I haven't seen you in.what, it must be ten years now!" He cuffed Lex on the shoulder and Lex frowned. Maurice didn't seem to notice at first, but then the jovial smile fell off his face too. "Your father didn't tell me he was coming early! Where is he?"  
  
"As far as I know, he's in Metropolis," Lex answered coolly. "My appearance here was entirely unplanned. My plane went down outside of town."  
  
"Well, son, if you need a place to stay until your father gets here, I'd be more than happy to offer you accommodations at my home," Maurice replied, his voice booming with inflated pride.  
  
Before Lex could respond, Chris jumped in. "Actually, Maurice, Ed and I have it all taken care of." He winked slyly at Lex, making sure Maurice couldn't see him. "Right, Lex?"  
  
"Right," Lex answered smoothly. "But thank you for the generous offer, Mr.?"  
  
"Minnifield. Maurice Minnifield, Minnifield Communications." Lex could see Chris laughing silently at Maurice's extravagant claim.  
  
"Yes, of course, Mr. Minnifield," said Lex, taking a firm grasp of Maurice's outstretched hand. "If I need anything, I'll be sure to get in touch with you."  
  
Maurice nodded. He shot one last angry glance at Chris and Ed. "You two are going to need to find employment elsewhere if you don't have this place in tip-top condition before tomorrow, you hear me?" They nodded. "Good," Maurice replied, slamming the door behind him.  
  
Chris burst out laughing. "Good old Maurice. I guess every town's got one- -a small-time entrepreneur with big dreams and bigger pockets. He's had more failed business attempts than most people have lovers. Don't let the bluster fool you. Minnifield Communications?" He swept his arm around, indicating the sound booth. "An AM station with a range of five miles on a good day."  
  
Lex half-smiled. He knew the type well. He'd seen through Maurice's arrogance immediately, entirely without benefit of Chris's exposition. He had to admit, though, that Chris was quite something. He had an unusual way with words and an offbeat personality that normally would have annoyed the piss out of Lex, but somehow, here in this Arctic twilight zone, it was refreshing. It rather reminded him of Chloe.  
  
Lex moved to where Chris lounged casually behind the mike. "And you would be.?"  
  
"Chris Stevens," Chris replied, shaking Lex's hand casually. Either Chris didn't know who the Luthors were, or he didn't care, because he didn't act as though he were talking to one of the most powerful men on the planet. And right then, Lex liked that.  
  
"Well, Chris, what exactly do you have 'taken care of'?"  
  
"Keeping you off of Maurice's radar," Chris answered. "And getting you out of here."  
  
Lex narrowed his eyes. "How did you know?"  
  
"Because, my friend, you look about as comfortable here as a lobster on its way into a pot of boiling water. And the look on your face when your father was mentioned could probably melt the snowcaps on McKinley. So I figure you need a way out. And considering that I jumped parole in West Virginia to end up here, I also figure that I'm the one to help you out." 


End file.
